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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702992">Like Real People Do</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honestlytrulymad/pseuds/Honestlytrulymad'>Honestlytrulymad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Be warned: this may take a long time to finish, F/M, Falling In Love, Horcruxes, I'm not entirely sure on the plot yet, NOT a time-travel fic, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle's Diary, apart from Canon Time-Travel in PoA, but do bear with, it might be something good</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:41:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honestlytrulymad/pseuds/Honestlytrulymad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucius Malfoy made a terrible, terrible mistake (or an excellent, excellent decision - depending on who you asked) by choosing to give Hermione Granger the Dark Lord's diary. Ginny Weasley would have been so much easier and in retrospect, Lucius Malfoy would change everything.</p><p>But then, in retrospect, a lot of people would change a lot of things.</p><p>~~</p><p>An AU, in which, Lucius Malfoy slips Hermione Granger the diary, instead of Ginny Weasley. Canon Divergence from Chamber of Secrets.</p><p>Hermione/Tom Riddle</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>529</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. a thought</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘I had a thought, dear, however scary’</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>She stared at the diary that had miraculously made its way into her cauldron. Her feet were folded underneath her, books strewn at her side, as she had been reading the Second Year Transfiguration textbook. However, she hadn’t been able to concentrate properly, not with it <em>staring </em>at her.</p><p> </p><p>Harry was now staying at the Weasley’s after he had been broken out of his Aunt and Uncle’s home, something which Hermione wouldn’t even chastise. <em>Bars on his window; locks on his door; food through a cat flap and all school stuff locked in the cupboard under the stairs.</em> She was glad he was out, and all this about a House-Elf that had made little to no sense in the letter Ron had sent her.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t have any other friends and her parents were always working. All she had were her books and the television, she supposed, but she didn’t like anything on the television; it was all so boring.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione stared at it again.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t bought it, so did that make her liable to thievery? But then, where in Diagon Alley did they have empty diaries falling off the shelves?</p><p> </p><p>She stared at it again.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it had fallen in whist she had been in a frenzy as Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy had brawled in Flourish and Blotts. Or had it been Mr Malfoy himself? Had he put it in her cauldron?</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had seen him do <em>something</em> when he had picked up Gilderoy Lockheart’s book and commented on its decency for a Muggle-born. She had <em>seen </em>him.</p><p> </p><p>But then came the question of, why would Mr. Malfoy have put an empty diary in her cauldron? Why?</p><p> </p><p>She stared at it and she could feel it staring back.</p><p> </p><p>She had willed herself a countless number of times not to touch it, because if Mr. Malfoy had put it in her cauldron, there would surely be some dangerous dark magic in it, ready to curse her, or maybe even kill her.</p><p> </p><p>Because he couldn’t have just put a diary in her cauldron because he thought she looked like she could use one.</p><p> </p><p>She stared at it and she knew it was staring back.</p><p> </p><p>Just another look wouldn’t hurt, would it? Nothing had jumped out and cursed her yet, and it had been in her possession for a long time now, a few hours at least, so surely, if Mr. Malfoy had given it to her to harm her, then it would have done so by now, surely?</p><p> </p><p>Was she sure? No, but she was still staring at it.</p><p> </p><p><em>Just one look, </em>thought Hermione, as she picked it up from the top of the pile on her bed, <em>just one look, that’s all.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>And though she didn’t know it yet, they would, eventually, become her famous last words.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. bugs and dirt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>'About that night, the bugs and the dirt’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The blurred mix of English countryside whizzed past, from where Hermione was sat in her compartment alone. Harry and Ron had not got on the train, and Hermione had fretted for a solid hour. She had cornered Fred and George and their sister, Ginny, asking where on earth they could be.</p><p> </p><p>Neither of them had a clue and Hermione had fretted even more. She had gone straight to the driver, saying that Harry and Ron were not on the train, and she was presuming them missing. It had been dramatic, but Hermione had to make sure the driver was going to take her seriously.</p><p> </p><p>He had stared at Hermione like she had gone mad, and Hermione had wrung her hands together, “It’s Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, could you, please, write to Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore or anyone and tell them? Please, I’m really worried.”</p><p> </p><p>He had written to Professor McGonagall and told her that they were most likely not missing, just late, and that she shouldn’t worry and that they would be fine.</p><p> </p><p>So that had brought Hermione into an empty compartment, with no one else. Alone.</p><p> </p><p>Definitely alone.</p><p> </p><p>Not a soul other than hers in the compartment.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had stared at the pages of Gilderoy Lockhart’s book for what felt like decades. Her thoughts were so scattered she couldn’t even make sense of the words in front of her, even if she had memorised the contents from top to bottom.</p><p> </p><p>She could feel it calling her. Those not so empty pages. Calling, calling, calling. Why was it so hard to ignore? Why couldn’t she just forget about <em>Tom</em>? Why was she always thinking about him?</p><p> </p><p>For the past two weeks all she had managed to think about was the diary and the Tom inside. Every time she told herself not to look, not to write, she suddenly had a quill in her hand, dipped in ink.</p><p> </p><p>Snapping the book shut at an alarming speed, Hermione shoved it under her arm, and she clambered up on to the seat and reached for the trunk stored in the rack above. She unlatched the lock and lifted up the lid. Slipping Gilderoy Lockhart’s book back on top of the section where all her books were piled, she lifted up the clothes and wriggled her arm about the bottom of the trunk, until her fingers grazed the leather binding.</p><p> </p><p>Pulling out the diary with utmost care, which she told herself was because she didn’t want to mess up the neatly folded piles of clothes, she peered in the trunk and also pulled out a quill and ink bottle, with decidedly less care.</p><p> </p><p>She held the three objects in her hand, precariously balanced at an awkward angle and shut the lid to her trunk, locking it with a <em>click.</em></p><p> </p><p>Before she knew it, the quill had been dipped in ink and her hand was resting gently above an empty page in the diary. It hesitated only for a second, where Hermione felt a small sense of dread creeping up her spine, before she squashed it down and wrote her familiar: <em>Dear Tom,</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Just as her hand hesitated for another second, although this one being for the thought at what she should write, the familiar scrawl appeared on the page, as hers faded away: <em>Hello, Hermione.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Heart hammering slightly in her chest, Hermione put the quill back on the page and wrote: <em>Harry and Ron didn’t get on the Hogwarts Express, I think they might have been late and the train left without them.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>She watched as her words disappeared into the pages, and she watched as the new words came back. They read: <em>Oh? You must have been worried.</em></p><p> </p><p>How had he known?</p><p> </p><p>Using the limited sense she had left, her brain clicked on to the fact that it was quite a generic thing to say, and that he could have guessed, an autogenerated response as such. But that most definitely didn’t explain the butterflies in her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>So, instead of doing what she should have done (burned it or something), she did what she knew was wrong, for the five-thousandth time in the past three weeks. She wrote back: <em>Yes, I had to go speak to the driver and ask him to owl Professor McGonagall; I didn’t even know there was a driver on the Express, I had just presumed that the train moved by itself, by magic. When did you find out about the driver?</em></p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>A couple weeks into term and Hermione hadn’t said a word about Tom to Harry or Ron. Tom lived in her trunk, at the very bottom, until night when Hermione would write and write and write till her heart’s content and Tom would write and write and write back.</p><p> </p><p>Tom was very patient; he was also very clever, and Hermione knew she could ask him about anything, which is why Hermione didn’t hesitate to ask Tom about being a Mudblood.</p><p> </p><p>She was curled up on her bed, hangings drawn because she would dread to think of what Lavender and Parvati would have to say about ‘bushy-Hermione’ writing in a diary. Probably whisper and look at her like she had two heads for the rest of the night.</p><p> </p><p>Her wrist moved in furious motions across the page, quill scratching the page. Her neat handwriting wrote: <em>Dear Tom, Draco Malfoy called me a Mudblood, and I’ve been told it means ‘dirty-blood’ and that it’s a common derogatory term for people like me – for Muggle-borns. <strike>Is that</strike> - <strike>Do you</strike> – Is it really that bad to be a Muggle-born?</em></p><p> </p><p>The ink sank into the page and Hermione stared at the now blank page with increasing trepidation. She waited and waited and waited, but the familiar scrawl did not show up. The page remained blank and Hermione could feel her heart speeding up, pounding and pounding and pounding.</p><p> </p><p>Her brow was furrowed, and she felt like she was going to be sick. Taking a chance, her hand moved over the dry paper once more and she held her breath, before writing: <em>Tom?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>The ink seeped in and Hermione only released her breath when she saw the familiar scrawl appear once again. It read: <em>Yes, Hermione? </em></p><p> </p><p>Hermione took in a deep breath of relief. She dipped her quill back into the ink pot that was resting beside her and she began to write back.</p><p> </p><p>That night, when she could hear the heavy breathing of Lavender and Parvati, and the diary was back at the bottom of her trunk, she vowed to never ask Tom about Mudbloods and Muggle-borns again.</p><p> </p><p>Never, never, never.   </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She woke up on the floor of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She sat up with and when she felt a lurch in her stomach, she practically crawled to one of the toilets and emptied her the entire contents of her stomach. Her back fell back into the wooden stalls and her head was thumping, thumping, thumping.</p><p> </p><p>There was an acidy taste in her mouth and all her limbs felt like they were made of the heaviest lead.</p><p> </p><p>Where was she? Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>Why was she in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? No idea.</p><p> </p><p>How had she got to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? Not a clue</p><p> </p><p>Why had she been passed out? Haven’t the foggiest.</p><p> </p><p>What could she remember? Not a lot; nothing really, nothing other than that she had woken up alone in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and that she still felt sick and downright awful.</p><p> </p><p>Taking a deep breath, Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself to remember. Where had she been before the bathroom? Potions, they had had that last, the last subject. She had brewed – something – she couldn’t quite remember. Professor Snape had been in a foul mood, as he often was on Halloween.</p><p> </p><p>Right – it was Halloween.</p><p> </p><p>Taking another deep breath, she felt her eyes sting with an oncoming onslaught of tear. What had happened? Stop – stop – stop. Think, Hermione. Think logically.</p><p> </p><p>Where was she supposed to be now? It was Halloween, where was she supposed to be? The feast – dinner. No. That wasn’t right. Where? Where? Where?</p><p> </p><p>Her mind suddenly slipped to ghosts and, for a moment, she became even more confused. Then her brain clicked. The Death Day party. That was where she was supposed to be. That was where she, Harry and Ron were supposed to be.</p><p> </p><p>So, then why was she in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and not at the Death Day party? She didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue and it made more tears spring to her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>No. Stop crying, you can figure this out. Just think, Hermione, just think logically.</p><p> </p><p>Taking yet another deep breath, she attempted to stand on shaky legs. The only way she would know is if she could see. Maybe she had fallen or something and knocked her head –</p><p> </p><p>Her train of though was curtailed, as her head gave a sudden twirl and Hermione found herself gripping harshly on to the wood. Her breath became shallow and shaky as her brain balanced itself in her head. In, out. In, out. In, out. Simple and easy; just in and out; that’s all it is. Breathe, Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>Pupils dilating, honey brown irises increasing and decreasing, she felt her vision clear. Tears no longer falling, just dry, sticky paths left in their wake, down the crevasse of her cheeks. In, out. In, out. In, out.</p><p> </p><p>Exhaling, Hermione put one foot in front of the other and took a cautious step. She put the other foot in front of that one and took another cautious step. Again, and again, and again.</p><p> </p><p>Again, and again, and again, until she was faced with the huge structural water feature – otherwise known as the sinks. Her eyes darted furiously around the whole place and the floor, in search of any clue that would give her a hint to what she had been doing unconscious in the middle of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>There it was.</p><p> </p><p>Tom.</p><p> </p><p>Leather bound parchment.</p><p> </p><p>On the floor, the notably wet floor.</p><p> </p><p>She padded over towards the diary in question and she picked it up. It was sopping and dripping with water, much like Hermione’s robes. She grabbed it with cautious hands and held it out in front of her, another sudden wave of sickness twisted the inside of her stomach. She rested her back on a sink.</p><p> </p><p>In, out. In, out. In, out.</p><p> </p><p>Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.</p><p> </p><p>She had been writing to Tom, just after Potions. She had been telling him about – about – about Halloween and how twelve years ago today, her best friend Harry Potter had defeated You-Know-Who.</p><p> </p><p>What else had she said?</p><p> </p><p>Or, rather, what had he said?</p><p> </p><p>He had been interested in You-Know-Who and Harry Potter. Hermione felt incredibly lightheaded, her breathing had returned to being shallow and shaky. She remembered being concerned at Tom’s reaction to Harry and You-Know-Who. She remembered – what had he said?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>How is it that a boy of no magical prowess managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She had felt the fury through the pages of the diary. She had merely written back meekly that even Dumbledore wasn’t sure and that nobody knew, so maybe it hadn’t even been him. Tom hadn’t replied and Hermione had stared at the blank page for a moment before gently closing the diary and – and – what had happened then? She couldn’t remember.</p><p> </p><p>Staring at Tom – at the diary, Hermione reached into the inside of her robes and dug her hand in deep. Her arm moved backwards and forwards, but nothing was there. Her wand wasn’t there. She always kept her wand in her right pocket. Always.</p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t there.</p><p> </p><p>She had no wand.</p><p> </p><p>No magic.</p><p> </p><p>It was alright. It was alright. Everything was alright.</p><p> </p><p>All she had to do was maybe find Ron and Harry, but then what would she tell them? That she had passed out in the bathroom and she had only woken up just now. Yes – yes – that would work.</p><p> </p><p>Then she could go to Madam Pomfrey and get a pain-relief potion, for her pounding headache. Yes – yes that would work. It would work. It would work.</p><p> </p><p>And then after that, she would find her wand.</p><p> </p><p>And then after that she would burn the diary and Tom inside.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She hadn’t burnt Tom, or, no, rather, she had, except Tom hadn’t burned. She had set the book on fire, and there it was, as if nothing had ever touched it. She had stared at the unburnt diary for what felt like hours after, for the first time, without feeling something akin to desire. In fact, she had stared at the diary with something akin to disgust.</p><p> </p><p>Because she knew, she knew Tom had done something to her, and it wasn’t just a coincidence that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened at the exact same time. No. Tom had done something to her and she would be a fool to not believe it.</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Malfoy had given her the diary – Tom – he had given it to harm her, in whatever way, shape or form that might be, and, Hermione supposed this was it, through Tom.</p><p> </p><p>She had decided to make sure she would never be so stupid again to write, or think about Tom, and although it was already proving incredibly tricky, she would try and she would keep trying.</p><p> </p><p>She would also keep trying to find away to destroy the thing – the diary – Tom. Fire didn’t work, but there had to be something else. The library would have something on how to get rid of charmed artifacts, because that’s all Tom – the diary – was, wasn’t he – it?</p><p> </p><p>Right?</p><p> </p><p>There was no chance that Tom was actually a real person, right?</p><p> </p><p>He seemed real though.</p><p> </p><p>But this was magic, there had to be some magic that allowed – allowed – false characters in diaries. Hermione had to shake her head at herself, that sounded more ludicrous than the possibility that Tom was actually a real person.</p><p> </p><p>He seemed real though.</p><p> </p><p>Either way, he needed to go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. digging</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘Why were you digging?’</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p><em>I know it was you who opened the Chamber. I know you made me do it. I trusted you. </em>She wrote furiously into the diary, because she just couldn’t help herself. There were tears of frustration slipping out of her eye and splashing onto the page. She hoped he could feel her hurt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hermione let the ink sink in, anger seeping its way through her very veins, right to her fingertips and out through the quill onto the page. Hermione had never been so angry in her life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The familiar scrawl appeared in response and Hermione read: <em>That was no mistake of mine, dear Hermione. Trust should never come so easily.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>She felt her chest constrict. The closed curtains suddenly felt too close. She looked up for a moment before pressing her head back down: she was a Gryffindor. She had to be brave. So, she wrote back: <em>No, I don’t think it was a mistake of yours either. You made me trust you so you could use me. I know it. That’s why Lucius Malfoy gave me the diary, isn’t it? You must have ordered him because I’m best friends with Harry Potter. Because I’m a Mudblood.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The world seemed to pause as the ink settled into the page. Hermione thought of Harry and Ron, who had become extra protective since she had hobbled out of the girl’s bathroom with blood on her robes. She had told them that the blood was hers, that she had hit her nose on her way down and given herself a nosebleed. They had seemed to believe her, but sometimes they were cleverer than they let on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I have no idea who Lucius Malfoy is, you silly girl. How could I have ordered him when I have been in here the entire time? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hermione paused in her anger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She took in the words with confusion.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her brain snapped into logic-gear and she dipped her quill back into ink and wrote, <em>if you don’t know Lucius Malfoy, how is it that he got the diary? </em>He was having her on, surely. He was trying to get her to trust him again. But it wouldn’t work. No, of course it wouldn’t. She would never, never trust Tom again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She was going to get to the bottom of this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I am well acquainted with Abraxas Malfoy. Perhaps I have not yet met Lucius Malfoy. Although, I will hazard a guess that there is some familial correlation between the two. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Hermione hated herself for finding it funny. She squished down the urge to laugh at Tom – the diary and asked instead: <em>Would you have given this diary to Abraxas Malfoy? What was so special about the Malfoys? </em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The ink seeped in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And ink seeped out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Why, dear Hermione? Have you misplaced your brain? Surely, you know better than anyone about the benefits of making friends with those that can wield power with just a name.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but she ignored the feeling resolutely, because she would never, never trust Tom Riddle again. Never, never, never, never.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m not friends with Harry, because he’s famous. I’m friends with him because I like him, and he likes me. He cares about me, and I care about him. I doubt you and Abraxas Malfoy could say the same.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Hermione tried not to be proud of her comeback, as it were. And she tried even harder when she practically felt Tom’s eyebrow being raised as the ink sank into the pages. And yet, reader, and yet no matter how hard she told herself she tried, she still felt something of a likeness to pride bubbling in her stomach.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Are you certain of yourself? Because even you must admit as a girl from Muggle heritage, it must have been hard for you, not knowing how anything worked, because books can only prepare you so much, no? But having a name, such as, Harry Potter attached to yours, certainly helped, didn’t it? You cannot go farther that the societal line with a surname like Granger.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Hermione breathed in deeply, and hesitated for only a moment, before she wrote back: <em>You have a Muggle heritage too, don’t you? I haven’t heard of the surname Riddle before, not before you.</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>She saw the scowl through the pages: <em>I would stay out of business you are not welcomed to join, Miss Granger. For consequences may arise if you do not.</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Hermione would have been lying if she said she had not shivered at the threat, but part if her intuitive was to fight back. She was a Gryffindor, and she was going to get to the bottom of the problem – of Tom. Some people dared to dream; Hermione dared to write. And dare she did. She wrote, in a sparkling moment of true brevity: <em>I never welcomed you into my business.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>You, my dear, welcomed me into your business the moment you put that quill into ink and started scratching on the pages.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Swallowing thickly, Hermione wrote back, tapping into that Gryffindor courage she was supposed to have: <em>Why, Tom? Why did you do that to me? Why did you make me open the Chamber? </em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Nothing appeared for a few moments and Hermione felt a thudding, thudding, thudding, in her heart, head and ears.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then came the infamous words that would end up haunting her forever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Those words that would change the very fate of Hermione Jean Granger. Except, of course, she had no idea, because all the poor girl had been trying to do was tap into that inner-Gryffindor courage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Those words of: <em>Would you like me to show you?</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>And the answer should have been no.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But you’ll have to remember, Hermione was a Gryffindor. Recklessness was a given. Hermione was also a near-Ravenclaw. Curiosity was a given. Hermione was also a potential-Hufflepuff. Tenacity was a given. Hermione was also a considered-Slytherin. Ambition was her final given.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, the answer was yes.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom Riddle took Hermione to one of the first ever memories in the diary. One of the first ever memories of when he was no more than six or seven. He showed her himself in the orphanage, cold, desperate, angry, alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cold. Desperate. Angry. Alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Didn’t that just nicely sum up Tom Marvolo Riddle?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cold. Desperate. Angry. Alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He watched the young girl with interest, as she watched a seven year old boy be screeched at by the Matron in the orphanage, as she watched a seven year old boy be chucked into the cellar, with all the spiders, because he had been ‘naughty’.  The cold, cold, cold cellar.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hermione. Her soul was strong. Her mind was strong. Her magic was strong.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She was stronger than Tom had thought she would be.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But she wasn’t invincible. Tom would get her – sooner – later – it didn’t matter. He didn’t care about the Chamber anymore. No. His focus had shifted. He wanted her. He needed her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And he would get her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom would get Hermione.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because no one beat Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not in the endgame. Not Albus Dumbledore. Not even Harry Potter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And most certainly not Hermione Granger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(although he didn’t know it yet, Tom Riddle would fatally prove himself wrong once again, because once someone took possession of your soul, there was no getting it back. Never.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. buried</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘What did you bury?’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Hermione didn’t know. She didn’t know. She did not know.</p><p> </p><p>And she did not like it.</p><p> </p><p>If anything, it was becoming a recurring occurrence and the one thing Hermione did know was why. Oh, she knew exactly why she didn’t know. She didn’t know, because of the great big conundrum that went by the name of Tom Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>How was she supposed to know when Tom was burning a hole in her brain? It was impossible to know. To know what to do. To know what to think. To know what to feel. Was it bad to feel sympathy? Or empathy? Or disgust? Or fear?</p><p> </p><p>What was right? And what was wrong?</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>How was she supposed to know?</p><p> </p><p>Tom Marvolo Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>I am Lord Voldemort.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had half figured it out from his reaction to the name of Harry Potter and had been told by Tom himself when she had had a bout of undisclosed courage.</p><p> </p><p>What would Harry say? What would he say if he knew she was feeling all those things about the man who murdered his parents? Hermione didn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>But then, or so she told herself, the man who murdered Harry’s parents was a different person to Tom Marvolo Riddle. Was he? Yes. No. Maybe. -ish. Arguably.</p><p> </p><p>Tom was dangerous. He was a – a <em>bad </em>person. But he was also a person who lots of bad things had happened to. She had seen him in the orphanage. No one deserved that. No boy deserved anything like that, and, Hermione thought, it was no wonder that he didn’t like Muggles. They had been nothing but awful to him.</p><p> </p><p>He had lived through the Blitz. No where to go. Always scared that any day could be his last. Hogwarts had been a safe place from all that, but he had been made to go back, because he had no where else to go, and because no one understood.</p><p> </p><p>But Hermione did.</p><p> </p><p>She was about fifty years too late (or, was she?), but nevertheless, she understood.</p><p> </p><p>And he had asked her. He had asked her the fruitful question of, <em>who won the war?</em> It had been the only moment of vulnerability on his part. The only question he had asked Hermione where she could tell he was afraid of the answer. Only slightly afraid, but afraid nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>He had been put in the diary before the war had ended. He didn’t know. No one had told him. He didn’t know who had won the war that had ended nearly forty years ago.</p><p> </p><p>And so, Hermione told him. She told him: <em>Germany lost, after Russia and the Allied Forces closed in on Berlin. Hitler committed suicide. But the war went on for a bit after, Japan and the U.S.A. were still at war. It only ended after America set two atomic bombs off on Japanese cities. Loads of innocent people were killed, so Japan had to surrender.</em></p><p> </p><p>She had got the feeling he had been simultaneously satisfied and disappointed with the answer.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione knew (one of the only things she was sure about at the moment) that Muggles were as dangerous as they were innocent. She knew about World War Two, and the Holocaust, and Hitler, and atomic bombs, and all those wars – <em>Muggle </em>wars – that took place all around the world.</p><p> </p><p>Which brought her back to not knowing. How was she supposed to know how to communicate that to Tom? What was she supposed to say that wouldn’t land her in a position of unconscious in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?</p><p> </p><p>She felt like she was constantly treading on thin ice whenever she picked up that quill and wrote to Tom. With Tom and herself. She had promised to never, ever write in the diary again, which had apparently gone to pot. She had also sworn to find a way to get rid of the diary, which had also gone to pot.</p><p> </p><p>There was so much buried in that diary, from a boy who was only three years older than her. Tom Riddle had buried himself in that diary, however that was possible, Hermione didn’t know. But he was there. There was someone buried in there and Hermione knew, she knew – or did she? – that it was dangerous.</p><p> </p><p>Buried things often are.</p><p> </p><p>Because buried things are meant to be hidden not found. Buried diaries are meant to preserve not unleash. Buried secrets never come out. Never.</p><p> </p><p>And yet. And yet, she played his game.</p><p> </p><p>Willingly, that she knew. She picked up the diary at night because she <em>wanted</em> to.</p><p> </p><p>She played his game because she didn’t know – or did she? – how was she to know? How could she know what Tom had buried and what he wanted to do with that?</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, she didn’t; buried things are meant to be hidden not found.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tom Marvolo Riddle could feel a tinge of amusement quirk his ethereal lips; she was making it too easy. He had her back on the hook, all he had to do was line her and then her could sink her. She was interested in him. She wanted to know. And that was all he needed.</p><p> </p><p>That was all she had, and it was all he needed.</p><p> </p><p><em>What’s so bad about hiding magic? I don’t understand. </em>She had written. Tom had told her about coining himself – about <em>being</em> Lord Voldemort and yet she was still here, writing to him, asking, seeking. Her inquisitiveness was amusing, as it was almost flattering.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Let me ask you this: What is so bad about revealing magic? I do not understand.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He had felt her falter. A point to him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Well, there are much more Muggles than wizards and witches, aren’t there? They have the technology to wipe us all out, like those atomic bombs, so what if they didn’t like the idea of people having magic? They could just get rid of us all.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He had faltered. A point to her.</p><p> </p><p>He had felt anger flair up in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You believe Muggle technology to overpower magic?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>There was no hesitation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No, I think they’re both kind of equal, aren’t they? Maybe magic overpowered Muggle technology in your time, but Muggle technology is, well, it’s unbelievable now.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Tom hesitated.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What do you mean by unbelievable?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>A solid five points to Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>No one was infallible. Let alone a figment of a soul from 1945, trapped in a diary, designed to keep a Dark Lord immortal.</p><p> </p><p>No one was infallible. Let alone a thirteen-year-old girl, with the diary containing a figment of Tom Riddle’s soul.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. pulled from the earth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘Before those hands pulled me from the earth’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>In one of her passing moments of sensibility, Hermione considered telling Harry and Ron about the diary – about Tom. They deserved to know after all, didn’t they? They were her two only friends. They had all gone to save the Philosopher’s Stone together, and they had succeeded. They had been through everything last year, surely that meant they deserved to know.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, it did.</p><p> </p><p>So then, why was it proving so difficult to just say it?</p><p> </p><p>Tom wasn’t a good person – he was the young Lord Voldemort – he hated Muggle-borns. He hated Muggles. She couldn’t just carry on writing to him and pretend that he did not hate people of her blood status. It would be foolish. Stupid. Idiotic. Ridiculous even. Just a terrible, horrible idea.</p><p> </p><p>So then, why was she still writing?</p><p> </p><p>Why was she still so interested in Tom? In his life? His everything?</p><p> </p><p>Why, oh why, had she not heeded her oath and found a way to destroy the diary?</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, Hermione?” Ron’s voice ripped Hermione out of her thoughts and back to dinner in the Great Hall. It was a week before the Christmas holidays, and the Hall was typically decorated overzealously, as it always was at Hogwarts.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione blinked, and said, “Yeah, I’m fine… thanks.” She added the ‘thanks’ at the end, because her chest had suddenly been washed over with a feeling of gratitude towards Ron. She looked back down at her food and then looked up again abruptly. She drew in a breath to say it – she was just going to say it – get it out of her brain and on to the table.</p><p> </p><p>Say it - say it – just say it –</p><p> </p><p>“Oi, Ronniekins!” It was Fred and George.</p><p> </p><p>The moment of sensibility had passed.</p><p> </p><p>Shame. (no, it wasn’t)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>Could you ever come out of the diary? </em>Wrote Hermione. It was a question she had been meaning to ask for a long time now, and it was just then that she had found the courage.</p><p> </p><p>It was Christmas Eve. The red and gold curtains were drawn around her bed once again. And once again, was she writing to Tom; will-power for the day diminished.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yes.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Hermione hesitated. <em>How?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>A body would be required. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The quill was hovered above the parchment. <em>A human body?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p><em>No, a cow’s body. </em>Hermione felt the eye-roll from her position on the bed.</p><p> </p><p><em> <strike>Would they </strike> </em> <em>Would the person have to be dead? </em></p><p> </p><p>She knew the answer, before she had even written the question. It didn’t make a difference to her reaction to the answer. It should have. But it didn’t. You shouldn’t get shocked with things you already knew.</p><p> </p><p><em>Eventually.</em> Had been the scrawled answer.</p><p> </p><p>She knew – she knew – for goodness’ sake, she <em>had known </em>– she had known. She had known the answer. So then whywhywhy had she thrown the book out of her lap as if it had burned her.</p><p> </p><p>Whywhywhywhywhywhy?</p><p> </p><p>Riddle her that.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tom Riddle didn’t feel guilt. Never. He had never felt it before, he would never.</p><p> </p><p>(Adverse reactions to being born from a love potion, or something like that, but Tom Riddle didn’t know that. It was just Albus Dumbledore and his presumptions.)</p><p> </p><p>And so, by thorough logic, we – you and I – can surmise that people who don’t feel guilt, don’t ever never ever feel guilty.</p><p> </p><p>Except, dear reader, this is not a case of thorough logic.</p><p> </p><p>Souls have no logic. There is no logic to the way a soul can sway one day and swish the next. They sway and swish with the wind. They hum and howl like a storm. They roar and rumble like lighting and thunder.</p><p> </p><p>They love and they hate. They glimmer and they fall flat. They fall and fall and fall and fall. Into a pit of nothingness. A barren body.</p><p> </p><p>Tom Riddle’s soul was no different. No matter what Dumbledore prattled on about in his time.</p><p> </p><p>No. Tom Riddle’s soul was no different.</p><p> </p><p>Especially not with Hermione Granger’s claim on it. Especially not when Hermione Granger had his soul as a possession. Especially not when Hermione Granger <em>cared</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Yep – you’ve guessed it, reader – Tom Riddle was a goner. Gone with the wind that made his soul sway, swish, hum, howl, roar and rumble. Perhaps you could even say that his soul had been pulled from the very earth by the hands of Hermione Granger.</p><p> </p><p>And so, yes. Tom Riddle could feel guilt. And he did.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was at that moment, miles and miles away from the confinements of Hermione Granger’s trunk, that a prophecy – a prophecy that was set to rip, tear and kill souls, <em>magical souls</em> – smashed.</p><p> </p><p>And it was at that moment that an Unspeakable made a note on his little wad of parchment, a note that would, in the coming months, make its way to Albus Dumbledore, who would stare at it for the better part of an hour and wonder just what had happened. And wonder just what he was going to do.</p><p> </p><p>And it was at that moment that Fate made her move of Life’s chess board.</p><p> </p><p>Her move.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. where you came from</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘I will not ask you where you came from’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>Six Months Later.</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The six months went by as something similar to the original story, but, well, there was a basilisk missing from this version, and no Ginny Weasley was taken down into the Chamber of Secrets, and no Harry Potter had to find a courage so grand, so powerful to overpower his labelled equal.</p><p> </p><p>But Quidditch still went on, Harry was still a parselmouth (but everyone had seemed to have forgotten about that and no one was more pleased than Harry himself.), Malfoy was still a prat, Colin Creevey still took pictures, Lockhart was still a narcissist (but no one was really surprised by that), Hagrid was still off his rocker, there were still ridiculous spiders in the Forbidden Forest and Tom Riddle was still in the diary.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And Tom Riddle was still in the diary.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>(A key and a clue for you, dear reader. A key and a clue for you to just see where our story may differ.)</p><p> </p><p>But there was only so long that Fate would have let our dear Tom remain trapped in the diary. She was rather impatient, you see.</p><p> </p><p>And you will have to remember – to understand – that when Fate makes a choice there is no escaping. Not a chance. Not a slither of hope.  </p><p> </p><p>And so, can you really place the blame on Hermione Granger?</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps. Perhaps not.</p><p> </p><p>Can you blame her for following the path that Fate had set? When, really, who had ever done any different? Was it her fault that Albus Dumbledore had made an enemy out of Tom Riddle before he had reached the age of twelve? Was it her fault that Merope Gaunt could do nothing else, but leave her bastard child at an orphanage?</p><p> </p><p>Was it her fault that Lucius Malfoy had given the diary to her instead of Ginny Weasley?</p><p> </p><p>No, of course not.</p><p> </p><p>And that, dear reader, <em>and that there,</em> is where our story differs.</p><p> </p><p>Or rather, should I say, that that there is <em>why </em>our story differs.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stupid. Stupid. You stupid girl. So stupid. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They were the main thoughts that were running through Hermione’s head, as she went through her daily routine of yanking her hairbrush through the amassed pile of knots and curls surrounding her head.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>So, so, so, so very, very, very stupid.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>What a stupid thing to agree to. What a stupid thing to say yes to. What a stupid thing to even consider.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>You stupid, stupid girl.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She stared in the mirror, willing herself to try and keep calm. She stared in the mirror, and tried to think – <em>think properly </em>– about whether it had actually happened – that she had actually agreed to – to – to –</p><p> </p><p>She daren’t even think it.</p><p> </p><p>She stared in the mirror and realised that she was yanking the brush too hard and that it hurt. She looked away from her reflection and at her hand clenched painfully hard around the handle of her brush.</p><p> </p><p>It was the last day of term.</p><p> </p><p>The year was over.</p><p> </p><p>She unclenched her hand.</p><p> </p><p>The year was over, and she had agreed to do something so, so, so, so very, very, very stupid.</p><p> </p><p>Her vision suddenly went fuzzy and her brain seemed to begin to spin. Spin and spin and spin, until she was forced to rest her forehead on the cool tiles of the girl’s dorm bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>Her breathing was fast, and she willed it to be deep too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It was okay. It was okay. It would be fine. She was just in shock. She was just panicking. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Calm down and think – think properly – think logically. Think like you knew how.</p><p> </p><p>Think logically, for bad things always arose if you did not.</p><p> </p><p>(she mustn’t have been thinking very logically when she had agreed to – to – when she had said – written – yes.)</p><p> </p><p>Her chest now expanded like a wave drawing up. Up and up and up.</p><p> </p><p>Her chest deflated like a wave crashing down on the shore. Down and down and down.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he had possessed her. Maybe he had tricked her all along. She was clearly stupid enough for it to be possible. Maybe this was his way of finally getting to her. Maybe this was the way he was going to kill her.</p><p> </p><p>No. No. No.</p><p> </p><p>How could it have been?</p><p> </p><p><em>He’s a soul trapped in a</em> <em>diary, </em>she admitted to herself, despite always trying her hardest to not wonder about where he had come from, <em>it’s not as though the impossible is no longer not possible.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Perhaps. Perhaps not.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The train pulled too slowly into King’s Cross. Hermione could hardly stand it. The train was too slow. Why was it so slow?</p><p> </p><p>She wanted to get off now. She needed to get off. The compartment was too close. Why was it so close?</p><p> </p><p>Too slow. Too close.</p><p> </p><p>(a nice, apt summary of how she had been this year. Too slow to realise. Too close to death.)</p><p> </p><p>They finally – <em>finally </em>– got off the train. Hermione vaguely noted that her hands were trembling; she just gripped on to her trunk harder and prayed – <em>prayed </em>– that no one would notice. That neither Harry, who was always distracted on the way back from Hogwarts, nor Ron would notice.</p><p> </p><p>They got on to the platform and there were too many students that Hermione had to press her arms into herself to try and get by. She had to press so hard that she could feel Tom squeezed into her stomach, where she had placed him half under her jeans and fully under her jumper and her coat. Where he had been all day. Why were there so many people?</p><p> </p><p>The plan.</p><p> </p><p>Too slow. Too close. Too many people.</p><p> </p><p>So slow. So close. So many people.</p><p> </p><p>It was a simple plan, and as Hermione, Ron and Harry pushed their way through the barriers of the platform and back into reality, she had to just repeat it to herself again. Just once more. Just to be sure.</p><p> </p><p>To be sure.</p><p> </p><p>But when was she ever sure these days?</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>“And make sure you get some sleep this summer, Hermione. You’ve looked like you’re about to keel over all year.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Ronald. Maybe try and make sure you don’t sleep too much this summer. You’ve looked like you’ve been asleep all year.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I’ll write.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I’ll write back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Goodbye, Harry.”</p><p> </p><p>“See you, Hermione.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Goodness, Hermione! You’ve gotten so big, look at you!”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em>you’ve</em> gotten so grey, look at <em>your hair</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“What are they teaching you at this magic school? How to cheek you’re poor father?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hermione, dear, you look awfully tired.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine, Mum, just the journey.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Oh! Hang on, my shoelace is undone.”</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked up at her parents who had, as she had predicted, stopped and joined her at the side of the pavement. From her crouched position, she said, a little loudly over the rush hour traffic, “I can meet you at the car. I can see it from here.”</p><p> </p><p>And it worked. Goodness knows how and why, but it had worked.</p><p> </p><p>Her dad had her trunk, so all she was left with was herself and Tom.</p><p> </p><p>This was it. The plan. A simple plan. This was it.</p><p> </p><p>All she had to do was drop it into a bag.</p><p> </p><p><em>And condemn a person to death</em>, helpfully supplied her conscience.</p><p> </p><p>A body for a soul and a soul for a body.</p><p> </p><p>He had promised her so much. He had told her all these things – these promises – these hopes. He had <em>promised.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Too slow, you stupid girl.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>But what choice did she have. (none, according to Fate.)</p><p> </p><p>He was in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>He promised. She promised.</p><p> </p><p>What choice did she have?</p><p> </p><p>What’s one person, for the lives of so many?</p><p> </p><p>He was in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>He promised. She promised.</p><p> </p><p>A stroke of luck. (was it?)</p><p> </p><p>A bag. An open bag. Right there. A simple plan.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Soon, Hermione. It will be soon, I promise.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She held her breath. (as though that were to make it excusable)</p><p> </p><p>She stood up and bashed straight into the bag and the lady holding the bag.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so, so very, very, very sorry.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The bag went flying and the woman reeled back from the force of the hit.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh god! Sorry! I – oh god!”</p><p> </p><p> <em>I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so, so very, very, very sorry.</em></p><p> </p><p>And then, she did it.</p><p> </p><p>She slipped the diary into the bag.</p><p> </p><p>Too close.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. neither should you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘I will not ask you, neither should you.’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>We’ll pick up from where we left of, shall we?</p><p> </p><p>Where we left, I’m sure you’ll recall, our dear Hermione passed Tom Riddle’s diary on to another poor soul. And now many of you will surely be wondering, what on earth was our dear Hermione thinking?</p><p> </p><p>How and why?</p><p> </p><p>Two very good questions, and I intend to answer them as best as I can, because, you see, dear reader, there was rather a lot that happened in the six months that we skipped. Rather a lot.</p><p> </p><p>We’ll begin at the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>Two souls.</p><p> </p><p>Riddled and woven throughout one another, through the hands of Fate and by the hand of Hermione Granger scribbling and scribbling.</p><p> </p><p>Now, you must remember, in those first few months in which Hermione Granger took possession of Tom Riddle’s soul and Tom Riddle attempted to take possession of Hermione Granger’s, a claim was made. And this claim, this very possession, is the answer as to why.</p><p> </p><p>So, now, if you ask ‘why?’, I will answer: A claim forged between two souls is enough to make either soul do something that may seem cruel – unjustifiable – take your pick – but, nevertheless, to them it is a choice made like none other. It is a choice that they want. That they need. That they yearned for without even realising it.</p><p> </p><p>It is, in other words, completely justifiable.</p><p> </p><p>And so, yes. Hermione Granger did pass on the diary in the hope that Tom would gain a body. Because, you’ll recall, it is a body for a soul and a soul for a body.</p><p> </p><p>And now, as to ‘how?’. Well, I’m afraid this is slightly more complicated.</p><p> </p><p>But it is still explainable, and that is what I shall do.</p><p> </p><p>If we cast our minds back to a chapter previous, I believe I told the story in a manner rather fast paced, and rather confusing. Which is why, I shall explain. I believe I used the phrase, ‘<em>He Promised. She promised.’</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>And though it might not seem like it. These two very short sentences offer a great deal of explanation as to ‘how?’. Because, as you can imagine, making a promise to a person who has a claim on your soul must make it a <em>true </em>promise.</p><p> </p><p>Promises get broken.</p><p> </p><p>Every hour, every minute, every second of every day.</p><p> </p><p>They get broken.</p><p> </p><p>But some – and by ‘some’ I mean a very, very, very small proportion of promises – do not get broken. They are made by the dangerous and the wicked and the smart and, most importantly, the unbroken.</p><p> </p><p>The unbroken are the most important type of person, because the unbroken can do and say and preach and promise, as they please. The unbroken can love and hate and love and hate, but they cannot - <em>they cannot</em> - break a promise.</p><p> </p><p>It is a part of their very being – their very system.</p><p> </p><p>They cannot break a promise.</p><p> </p><p>Which means that when Tom Riddle suggested to Hermione Granger that she pass on the diary for him to regain his body with a promise of hope and prosperity, Hermione Granger, too, made a promise.</p><p> </p><p>And let me tell you, dear reader, Hermione Granger is unbroken.</p><p> </p><p>And so, remains her promise.</p><p> </p><p>Now that that’s clarified, I feel we can move another six months ahead.</p><p> </p><p>Not to panic though, these next six months that we are skipping to do not contain anything that differs to differently from the original story; Sirius Black still escaped Azkaban, Remus Lupin was still a werewolf and still became the Defence Professor, Hermione Granger still took too many lessons and was still wrestling with an unmatched conscience and an unleashed soul that she had no clue about.</p><p> </p><p>And our story only differs in one part, though rather significant, but it lies in the idea that Tom Riddle is no longer in the diary.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tom Riddle is no longer in the diary.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>There are now two Tom Riddles in the world: one with a body and the other without.</p><p> </p><p>Now this is where I pick up our story. Another six months and another Tom Riddle later.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Hermione had gotten some sleep that summer, as Ron had suggested. She had slept deeper and more relaxed than she had slept during the entirety of her second year at Hogwarts, and so she had gone back to Hogwarts feeling very much rested and very much ambitious.</p><p> </p><p>And it may come as a surprise to many – her relaxation – and it had come at a surprise to her too. It had come at a surprise to her at how <em>utterly relieved </em>she had felt all summer.</p><p> </p><p>Despite the crushing guilt and the narrowing curiosity, even she could not deny the overwhelming freeness to her movements – to the way she got up in the morning and went to bed at night.</p><p> </p><p>And in a sort of sad way, she felt as though she would also be relieved if she were to never again hear the name Tom Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>That she may manage to convince and work her second year of Hogwarts down to no more than a distant memory of a dream.</p><p> </p><p>Except, obviously, Fate would have a couple things to say about this and even Hermione herself. The other part of Hermione who woke every morning and went to sleep every night wondering and wondering and wondering just where Tom was, and what he was doing and how he was feeling and –</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it wouldn’t be a relief.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, how would she know?</p><p> </p><p>It had been six months since she left the diary in the hands of another. Or rather, in the bag of another. And for six long, long, long months she had heard nothing. She hadn’t heard hide nor hair.</p><p> </p><p>Until she did.</p><p> </p><p>Until she received a letter of all things.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hermione,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I wish to let you know that I have gained a body. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps I ought to thank you,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>T.M.R.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Its vagueness had her perplexed. She was actually quite offended at its bluntness, although she shouldn’t have been so surprised. And most notably, she wondered whether that was it. That he would never write nor speak to her again.</p><p> </p><p>That the past eighteen months had meant absolutely nothing to him, and she had just been another, rather more difficult obstacle in his way.</p><p> </p><p>And then, she was reminded of his promise.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Soon, Hermione. It will be soon, I promise.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>His promise to help her. As a Muggle-born. As a girl. To help her.</p><p> </p><p>(you may be wondering, why would Muggle-hating Tom Marvolo Riddle promise to help a Mudblood? But worry not, dear reader, for that will be covered.)</p><p> </p><p>Had that been a lie too? Had he just said that to help remove the obstacle? Had she, yet again, been too slow?</p><p> </p><p>Hermione felt like screaming into her pillow, letter clutched tightly in her fist, a huge, great, big, wast seeping hole felt like it was gnawing at her chest. Opening it up, swallowing her, feeding on her, biting her, devouring her.</p><p> </p><p>The time turner was pressed deep into her chest, and it gave her a sense of security, a sense of power. She could time travel. She was the brightest witch of her age. She was Hermione Jean Granger.</p><p> </p><p>And she decided, in that moment, that she was going to write a letter back to Tom Marvolo Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>Because he would not shut her out.</p><p> </p><p>Not on his terms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. sweet lips</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips.’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>There is a slight subtlety to invigoration, even as ironic as that may seem. Because, you see, passion and therein invigoration can be controlled by the person and therein the soul. You can control how far you set your emotions.</p><p> </p><p>It is the only hand that you can play, controlling your emotions. Nothing. And I repeat, nothing, will ever change that.</p><p> </p><p>Life is just, merely, learning how to control your emotions.</p><p> </p><p>Sure, without emotions, we would be nothing, as people. Yet, if we showcased every single one of our emotions, when we felt them, and how we felt them, then I’m afraid, we would be nothing as a society.</p><p> </p><p>We learn to control emotion. And, our dears, Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger were no exceptions.</p><p> </p><p>But there is a small, very minute exception to this case of a twist in Fate, and that is, dear reader, the fact that between two people the controlling of emotion can sometimes, and it is only sometimes, become a broken law in the midst of forming obsession.</p><p> </p><p>And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us swiftly straight into the tumultuous year that was Hermione Granger’s third year and Hogwarts.</p><p> </p><p>(tumultuous not only because there was a certain Azkaban escapee after her best friend and she was going to a ridiculous amount of classes and doing a ridiculous amount of work in a ridiculous amount of time, but because Tom Riddle was still a reigning figure on her mind and conscience and soul.)</p><p> </p><p>As we have established, it began with a letter. Both ominous and frank. And wholly perplexing.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, where were we?</p><p> </p><p>Ah yes – yes – Hermione wrote a letter back to Tom Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>For better or for worse? Well, she was about to find out.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>T.M.R,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps you do ought to thank me, although I am not sure if that would make me feel better or worse. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>How is modern life treating you? We do things quite differently as I am sure you have realised. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hope you are settling in well,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>H.J.G.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Her response had been laced with sarcasm, mainly because she was annoyed, but partially because she was curious. Curious to see, just to see, what his response would be. Just to see. Just to test.</p><p> </p><p>As I have mentioned, emotions are controlled in the vast majority of cases, but as I have implied and hopefully you have gathered, Tom and Hermione fall into a category on their own.</p><p> </p><p>A category for the very small, very minute exceptions.</p><p> </p><p>And so, emotions were not controlled between those two particular souls. Anger was shown when anger was felt, and love would be shown when love would be felt (but we haven’t got to that bit yet).</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>H.J.G,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>The transition has been fine, I thank you for your concern, it is certainly raising my spirits by the second.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>On the matter of my gratitude, I have decided that you can have it if it should make you feel better, though if it should make you feel worse, kindly return it with this letter. I am in dire need of all that I can get, you see.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hope your conscience is not weighing you down,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>T.M.R.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>And despite everything, despite all the bad and the good and the ugly, Hermione laughed as she read the letter. She laughed into her hand, while her other hand shook the letter vigorously. She laughed again when she reread the letter. And she laughed again sometime in the middle of that night when she awoke to the memory on the forefront of her mind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Amusement was shown when amusement was felt.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>And, shall we just say that life went on like that for a time where no one was recording, because who can be sure at this point, what with Time-Turners turning here, there, and everywhere.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Time, a fickle thing, but also a relative thing. Time ticked on, but on who’s watch? No one is ever quite sure, but we can be sure that time is moving forwards. Always. Even when a person moves back through time, time can only still move forward.</p><p> </p><p>You can move back through time, but time can never move backwards.</p><p> </p><p>An axiom of sorts.</p><p> </p><p>Anyhow, I digress, we should be moving forwards not backwards.</p><p> </p><p>So, we arrive, another few months later, where once again the story did not differ so much as it did not change. Sirius Black still revealed himself to his godson in the Shrieking Shack, Remus Lupin still found his best friend, Harry Potter still stopped them killing Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin still transformed, and Peter Pettigrew still got away.</p><p> </p><p>Now, you’ll see, that this is where our story begins to diverge fully and that things begin to complicate, but fear not, all will be told as all will be explained.</p><p> </p><p>The complications began not so long after Hermione had gotten home after her third year at Hogwarts, after she had fruitfully decided to resign on the Time-Turner business, after she had spent yet another year of Hogwarts deprived of enough sleep.</p><p> </p><p>They began, not so simply, but ever-so expectantly, with Tom Riddle.</p><p> </p><p>Who had made his appearance on Hermione’s doorstep.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had thought that the sleep deprivation had made her delirious as she saw the very real, very human Tom Riddle stood on her doorstep. He looked both the same and completely the opposite to the Tom Riddle he had shown her in the diary.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The same and completely the opposite.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A parody, yet it explained so little and so much.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Hermione,” greeted Tom, casually, as if souls you had been writing to for two years just magically appeared on your doorstep every day.</p><p> </p><p>(nope. Definitely not delirious.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. like real people do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“We should just kiss like real people do.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>“I – er – I,” stuttered Hermione, she glanced behind her as though she were expecting someone to be watching her (a conscience perhaps, or parents as it were).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” stated Tom, eyes sweeping the home at which Hermione lived.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” denied Hermione hastily, “No – no – er – I – my parents are working.” She finished rather lamely and also with a feeling, we all know the one, of pure mortification and confusion and just an overwhelming want to be swallowed up by the earth never to be seen again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah – yes, they are dentists, are they not? I seem to recall you telling me in those early days,” Tom, who looked suspiciously like he was enjoying himself at the expense of his fated partner (although he was yet to figure that last part out), asked. Without waiting for a reply, for which Hermione only managed to nod somewhat dumbly, he set off again, “You know, I would have thought you would have invited me into your house by now. That is unless I am not welcome.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And, well, who was Hermione to say no?</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Now, I do fear I have moved rather quickly and without much explanation, so if you will let me explain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom – <em>this </em>Tom – still yearned for power. Of course, he did. He, after all, was still Slytherin’s heir; ambition was natural. He still sought to dominate, to rule, to reign. Yes, yes, that was still very much on his agenda.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But and I think it is imperative that you understand this, it is not our abilities that define us, rather it is our choices. I should like to quickly amend that quote to: it is not our traits that define us, rather it is the realities we choose to impassion those traits into.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To be ambitious does not mean you are inevitably a dark lord.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To be neglected and loveless does not mean you are incapable of loving.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To be cold does not mean you cannot feel warmth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(It just takes time and patience and care, but they get there I promise. They do, I swear, just with time and patience and care.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom Riddle was a human, a magical one, no doubt, and a character, no doubt either. But a human, nonetheless. And humans cannot survive without love and affection. They starve for it, yearn for it, learn for it. And, as I have said countless times before, Tom Riddle was no different.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You see, I believe, and I hope you would agree, that a person becomes ten times more evil when you villainise them, when you ostracise them, when you treat them with such a callous cold that they have no choice but to return the coldness, the chill.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Dumbledore made an enemy. Not intentionally, no, of course not. But he did, and in the original story he ended up reaping the consequences he sowed. Alas, this is not the original story and so there is a different path that we, you and I, shall endeavour upon, but let us get to that in a moment, for I am not finished yet.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, in short, what I should like you to take from this is that, most often than not a villain is made by the hero; an antagonist is but a string of words without the hatred of its protagonist; a villain is made not born, and I hope you remember that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Made not born.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And back to the story.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“You need to take your shoes off,” said Hermione without much thought. And then she thought. Thought about the fact that she may or may not have just told the young You-Know-Who to take his shoes off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Safe to say, she nearly died of embarrassment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But, as I’ve said, Tom Riddle was enjoying himself far too much, and did, in fact, take his shoes off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They sat in the kitchen, because Hermione had at least enough sense to not take him to her bedroom, and they spoke. Just spoke. Spoke and spoke and spoke, for a great deal of time until Hermione felt her mouth become dry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was interesting. Mainly because it was so normal. So interestingly normal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who would have thought, Tom Riddle talking to a Mudblood about plans to rectify his path to power?</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>When Tom disapparated from her kitchen, nearly three hours later, Hermione found it in herself to sprint upstairs to her room and lock the door shut. She practically collapsed onto her bed and felt her heart thrumming and thrumming and thrumming.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her breathing was heavy but paced.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her hands weren’t shaking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her mind wasn’t fuzzy and her brain not dizzy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She was calm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Strange.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Though Fate would disagree, but of course to her nothing was strange, for she was everything. In fact, Fate would argue that the two, Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle, had just experience the kiss of Fate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The kiss of Fate, administered to only real people, or rather, dear readers, to only real souls, real souls that belonged to none other than Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle. The kiss of Fate was a seal, a binding, a contract, of promise, prosperity and potential.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And promise and prosperity and potential is what you shall get, but I am afraid they will come a little later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For now, Hermione was calm, and she thought it strange.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy New Year everybody!! I hope that wherever you may be in the world (and if it is already 2021- I have three hours left of this shitty excuse for a year) you have a wonderful, wonderful new year and that you had a truly wonderful Christmas (if you celebrate)! Here's to a better bloody year than this one has been! Cheers :)</p>
<p>Also, I'm sorry for the long wait, but I am a real person (ha ha) and I do have a life that also needs living. Nevertheless, I will definitely endeavour to keep the updates often again. Thank you!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. eyes always seeking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘I knew that look, dear, eyes always seeking.’</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>~ Like Real People Do (Hozier)</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Even Tom Riddle could admit to himself when he was wrong, well, when his mind – not soul, because we’re still a little too far past that point - was all fully intact anyway. But he could, and he had, on this particular point.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A not so small point, but a particular one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A point about Mudbloods and magic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now, what Tom Riddle had known from the start, was that he didn’t care. He didn’t care about blood status, a Half-blood himself. He did not care.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not in the slightest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was not, and had never been, ignorant. He was not, and had never been, hypocritical. He was not, and had never been, blatantly self-unaware. Everyone had just failed to understand, and that was not, and had never been, his problem.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, let me explain it to you, dear reader.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom Riddle’s eyes had always sought power. They had lusted for it. Yearned for it. Longed for it. Even before magic, his eyes had wandered in the direction of power, in any direction that could give him that thrill, that sensation of utter, utter ecstasy - of power.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For his whole life, nothing had ever taken precedence over the want, the need, the desire for power. Nothing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But to achieve said power, actions need to be installed, prejudices need to be instilled. That was the way of the world, that was how you climbed the ranks and the ladders: you offer already powerful people (people with money and political power) an answer, a slither of chance ‘to be more powerful’.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s all rubbish of course; it had never been on Tom Riddle’s agenda to give the people he used anything. (Well, <em>life,</em> if that counts – probably not.) But you offer it because that’s how you climb the ladder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, let’s bring ourselves back to the point of Tom Riddle admitting that he had been wrong. He had been wrong to aim for the Pureblood community. He was wrong to aim for the ideal that would spark a revolt, a revolution. He had been wrong on that front.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It hadn’t worked, as proven by his other self, roaming Albania as nothing more than a spirit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And Tom Riddle had admitted it and learned from it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(You can’t win, you can’t <em>truly</em> win, whenever there is resistance; that’s not power.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And that was that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Except it wasn’t quite, because there is something singularly remarkable about Fate, and it’s that you cannot, and I repeat, can never, escape it. It follows you, day in, day out, night in, night out. Every second of every minute of every day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It follows you, haunts you, invigorates you. It is, in short, the very reason why Tom Riddle could never leave Hermione Granger, as she could never leave him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was just a very slight problem on the front of Hermione Granger’s mind; just a small, very slight one, and it came in the form of Harry Potter’s name coming, well, being spat, out of the Goblet of Fire.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just a very slight problem.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And not to mention the fact that Ron and Harry were not speaking, but that was neither here nor there, because Hermione was tired and utterly fed up with boys. One minute they were laughing, the next they were fighting, then glaring, then laughing, then fighting again. It honestly made her head spin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, in light of this slight problem, Hermione thought she would make use of her sources and seek help from the one person in the world who might actually have an inkling as to what was going on – or perhaps one of two.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One would have thought that the choice between Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore was one that you didn’t even need to consider, and Hermione didn’t consider, except she went with the option that most people wouldn’t have gone with.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ll refer you to Fate for that answer.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Her letter went a little something like this:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>T.M.R,</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>I have no real reason for writing, other than for the slight problem my friends and I seem to have stumbled across: Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m not sure if you’ll know what that means, did they have the Triwizard Tournament when you were at Hogwarts? Either way, for reference’s sake, it’s a ridiculous competition, and Harry may die, and we think it may be YOUR fault. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>(If you get what I mean.)</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Hoping you could offer some insight, seeing as it is YOU,</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>H.J.G.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>And his response had gone something along the lines of this:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>H.J.G,</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Just how old do you think I am? Of course, I know what the Triwizard Tournament is. What a moronic question. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>And just how out of touch do you think I am with the modern world? I, as a matter of fact, have a subscription to the Daily Prophet (still the Wizarding World’s most biased newspaper, but it gets the news fastest, so make of it what you will). I am well aware of Harry Potter’s situation and am inclined to find it mildly amusing and not just because I know you will be outraged.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>To get to your question though, I understand what you mean, and I could indeed offer some insight, yes.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>T.M.R.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Are you looking for me?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Was the question Hermione thought of as she first read the letter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Are you seeking me out?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And her own answer was yes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yes, you are.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And she smiled as she thought it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(he was seeking her, just as she was seeking him.)</p>
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